Hope
by archivedfics2013
Summary: Olivia, even as a scared little nine year old, has always been the strong one. Follow up to both 'Subject 13' and 'Marionette', with spoilers for 'The Cure'. Polivia, Angst/Drama/Romance, rated a tentative T.


**A/N: **Starts where Subject 13 (which was amazing and made me cry, by the way) finished, when Olivia is leaving with her stepfather. Spoilers for that, The Cure and Marionette.

For those who read 'Survival of the Fittest', I'm still grounded, but I've began writing a sequel that will be posted in the next few weeks. (I had to wait until I was home alone to post this!)

I don't own Fringe. Also, I'm from Australia, so please excuse any differences in spelling.

**IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ****.** I was _extremely_ hesitant to post this under a 'T' rating, because I'm unsure if it should be T or M. If anyone even _slightly_ wants me to change the rating, please tell me and I will.

Contains violence, child abuse, and language. Not a particularly happy fic.

… … …

_Jacksonville, 1985._

Her step father glares at Dr Walter, putting a hand on her shoulder and steering her out of the hall. She wants to recoil from his touch but she doesn't, knowing he wont like it.

She wishes Peter were here again. She barely knew him, but he was the first person to ever make her feel like things were going to be okay. Dr Walter couldn't do that, Nick couldn't do that, mom couldn't do that, even Rachel couldn't do that. Olivia had to be strong for Nick and for Rachel and for mom, she had to make _them_ feel like it was going to be okay, even when it wasn't. And Dr Walter was scary. He always said "it's alright, Olive. It's okay." But it wasn't. She'd never believed him. It was never okay.

As the car door slams, he begins his tirade of long, angry words. Words that children her age shouldn't know, but she knows all of them. She has always been a smart kid, and known lots of fancy words from the books she read, but these words aren't the kind that are written in books. These words are ugly, crude, and sometimes they hurt more than the blows. He says so many awful things about mom and Rachel, and about Olivia too. But Olivia can't let them affect her. She has to stay strong, for them.

Olivia, even as a scared little nine year old, has always been the strong one.

They're pulling up to the house now. He's saying lots of awful things still, and his yells are getting louder. Olivia used to wonder why the neighbours don't hear. They must hear the words he says, the screams from her mom, the sobs from her sister. Until she realised that they _do_ hear. They just don't do anything. She doesn't understand why. She promises herself that when she grows up, she will help other people. The way that no one helped her.

Except Peter. Peter had been different to everyone else. He'd helped her. He'd told her to tell someone about what he did to her. He wasn't scared of her, even when she imagined things into being. She isn't really sure how she does that - Rachel can't. Some of the other kids at the day care can, but not very often. Not the way she does.

Maybe if she imagines him stopping hurting her, he will. But she's so scared, she can't try right now. Her mom is clutching a glass filled with whiskey that Olivia sometimes sneaks a sip of. She knows it's bad, but the whiskey tastes good when it burns her throat. She never drinks more than a sip, but it always makes it a little easier to forget. Forget about everything. There is seldom anything good to remember.

"Fucking brat! Ran away, what the hell did you think you were doing bitch!"

He's very, very angry at her now. Rachel is standing in the doorway with tears in her eyes clutching the worn brown teddy bear that she caries everywhere, blonde hair wet and tangled. Mom forgot to brush it again. _Go to bed_, Olivia mouths to Rachel. The little girl just stands, wide-eyed. _Please Rachel. Please just go to bed._ Rachel nods, and scurries down the hall. Olivia is relieved. She will never let her stepfather touch Rachel. Ever.

"Don't you turn your back on me, you fucking _slut_!"

He grabs her hands so tight it brings tears to her eyes, but she wont cry out. He growls, punching her ribs, _hard, _so hard that she falls to the ground. He kicks her once, twice, three times, until she's crying out loud. She feels like she's going to throw up. She feels like she's going to die. For one split second she hopes she _does_ die, but the she remembers Rachel and mum. And Peter. Peter, who held her hand in his and made her feel safe.

She never feels safe anymore.

His attention is turned on mom now. Olivia can't bare to watch from where she lies on the cold floor, her face damp with tears. She looks away, and her eyes land on a book lying a few feet from her. It's the book she was reading the other night, _Winter's Tale, _by Mark Helprin. She pretends she doesn't hear the glass of whiskey smash to the floor, or her mom's strangled sobs and screams, or the sickening _crunch_ of his fist against her nose. She peeks from beneath her eyelashes to see her mum lying on the ground in a messy puddle of glass and whiskey and blood, sobbing uncontrollably.

_Stop it mom. Stop it. It'll only make him angrier._

It does. He drags Olivia up like a limp rag doll. "You're a pretty little thing, aren't you darling?" he says dangerously, his voice making her feel sick to the stomach.

Oh no. Nonononononono. Please not this. She knows what he does to her mom when he uses that voice. No. Please.

"Please," she sobs. "Please, please don't." Very rarely does she beg like this. "Please." Her voice is barely recognisable through the sobs. "Don't. Don't."

"You'll do what I say, bitch," he says. Her mom is sobbing harder, but she makes no move to get up. _Please do something mom. Get up and call the police. Make him stop. Please mommy, make him stop!"_

But she doesn't. He is tearing her clothes off of her, and Olivia is so terrified and disgusted that she can barely think. _! _She's curled on the ground, naked, cold, and when he unzips his pants she starts screaming. She screams for someone, anyone to do something, make him stop it, don't let him do this to me! She is a smart girl for her age, she knows exactly what's about to happen. He does this to her mom, except her mom doesn't fight, just cries. But you don't do this sort of thing to kids. No one should do this sort of thing to kids.

It's when he pushes her down on the ground and climbs on top of her that she begins to fight.

She will _wont_ let this happen. She screams, kicks, bites, claws, punches, scratches. Her mom is pressing her hands over her ears, as if that will make this all not really happening. Her stepfather is bigger than her, stronger than her, but Olivia can smell the alcohol on his breath, and it's making him slow. She keeps fighting, and he gets angrier and angrier, but she is more determined. It is too good to be true when she grabs the book lying on the ground and whacks him over the head with it, dazing him. She manages to slip out from under him and races down the hall faster than she has ever ran in her entire life. His footsteps thunder behind her, almost as loud as the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, but she has him beat. She slams her bedroom door and locks it from the inside. For a few minutes he bangs at it, trying to beat the door down, yelling awful words at her.

She's so _terrified._

"Livvy?"

Rachel crawls out from under the bed, clutching that teddy bear. "Livvy, what happened? Where are your clothes? Did you have a shower?"

All she wants to do is fall on the floor and sob until she falls asleep or dies, one or the other, but she doesn't, because Rachel is more important. She can hear his car pull out of driveway. Olivia picks up a long nightgown from the floor and tugs it over her head.

"It's … it's okay Rachey. It's okay. I'm okay." Her voice is broken between sobs, but right now it's the best she can do. She's not okay, not at all, but Rachel doesn't need to know that. She's so scared. Sososo scared. She feels dirty. She wants to take a shower and rub until her skin comes off, and maybe then she'll be clean, and she wont be able to feel his hands all over her skin again.

"He hurt you, didn't he Livvy?" Rachel's big hazel eyes fill with tears. "I'm sorry. I hate him Livvy."

"Me too Rachey," she sobs. "Me too."

Just then, she can no longer be strong. She curls up on the ground and cries so hard she doesn't remember her own name. She knows she should feel lucky that she got away before the worst stuff happened, because she _is _lucky. Incredibly lucky. But she just feels filthy and disgusting and ashamed and absolutely terrified. Rachel curls up at Olivia's side like a baby bear to its mother, not sure what it happening but upset all the same.

It's a long time before Olivia can get the strength to stand back up. A very, very long time, maybe half the night. Sometime when she was crying, Rachel has fallen asleep by her side. Olivia picks her up and tucks her into her bed shakily.

_I'm not afraid._ That's Peter's voice in her head. She wishes he was here. She knows it's irrational and silly, but he was able to make her feel better before. He made her feel like everything was going to be okay.

Car headlights flash across her window, and she gives a startled scream that wakes up Rachel with a sob. "Is he here?" she sobs.

Not again. Nononononononono. She wouldn't let it happen again. What if this time she isn't able to get away? Nononononononononono. Please. This can't be happening. What if next time it's _Rachel?_

In that terrified moment, Olivia prays to a god that she doesn't believe exists. She's always thought her mother was so silly for believing in God, but right now, it's a last resort. She squeezes her eyes shut and prays, wondering if there is a god, can he hear her through her sobs?

A car door slams.

"Rachel, get under the bed."

"But Livvy-"

"Please Rachel!" Rachel slides herself (and her brown teddy) under the bed quietly. "Don't come out until I come and get you, okay? No matter what."

"Okay," she whispers. Olivia tries to give her a brave smile, and then unlocks the door, closing it with a click behind her.

She knows exactly where the gun is. In the drawer next to his side of the bed. She pulls it out, surprised by how heavy it is. She tiptoes down the hall quickly, almost tripping on her nightgown, which is far too big. She feels a bit like she's dreaming, but she knows she wont wake up. She wishes she would, she wishes so, _so_ hard. But she wont. There's no easy way out from this, and God isn't going to help her. Olivia has to fight this battle all by herself.

Her mom is still lying on the floor, and from here Olivia can see her face. There's blood all over it, bruises covering her, and scratches from the glass. She hasn't moved in all this time. Her mom has never been very strong.

The door clicks, and Olivia points the gun, clicking off the safety. She knows how to use it. Her fingers are positioned on the trigger and the door is swinging open when her mom seems to realise what's happening and starts crying again. She looks pathetic really, just pathetic. Olivia loves her anyway.

They stare at each other for a brief moment, his alcohol-clouded eyes boring into hers, and for a moment she isn't sure she can pull the trigger. But then she remembers Peter taking her hand. She has to make everything okay, and this is the only way to do that. She wont let him try and do that disgusting thing to her again. She wont let him hurt Rachel or her mom. Never, ever again, she promises herself.

She pulls the trigger.

The blast sends her a little off balance, and she stagers back a step. The loud _bang_ seems to echo in the silence, reverberating around the room. There is a hole in his shoulder, a hole that is pouring blood.

_Why is he still standing!_

She pulls the trigger again, this time prepared for the shock and keeping her balance. He falls to the ground, surprise in his eyes, blood coming from a hole in his chest as well now. Tentatively, she stands over him.

His eyes are still open, his breath strained, and he's just daring her to finish. She can see it in his eyes - she's weak. She can't kill him. She raises the gun again, this time pointing to his head. _Go on!_ his eyes say. _Do it! I know you can't._

He's right, she can't. She drops the gun and runs to the phone, dialling the number drilled into her by her father - her _real _father_._

"_9-1-1, please state your emergency."_

"I … I think he's dying."

"_What? Who is dying? If this is a prank call-"_

"My stepfather. I shot him."

The woman on the line hesitates a moment. _"How old are you?"_

"Nine."

"_Okay sweetie, stay on the phone to me. Where are you?"_

"Forty-seven Currie Street."

"_Okay, we'll have an ambulance there in just a few minutes, alright?"_

By the time the ambulance and the police get there, her mom has drunk herself unconscious, and Olivia is curled up with Rachel under the bed.

She should have killed him. She should have finished it. She hates herself for not pulling the trigger that last time, for not finishing him off. She's still scared, and she still feels dirty. She wants to die. She cries instead. Rachel rubs her shoulder, scared because Olivia is scared. Olivia was always the strong one. But right now, she _can't_ be strong.

_He's gone now_. That's the only comfort she can take from everything. _He's gone. He wont hurt mom again. He wont hurt Rachel again. He's gone. He's gone. He wont come back._

_Will he?_

The police are assessing what happened - a nice woman with short brown hair and orange lipstick talks to Rachel and Olivia. Mainly Olivia. She wants to know what happened, and eventually Olivia tells her. The lady hugs her when she cries, and hands her a sweet lolly that does nothing to make her feel better, just makes her feel slightly sick.

No, it's not the lolly making her feel sick. It's the feel of _him_ on her skin, so revolting she races to the bathroom and throws up in the sink. She's cried so much in the last few hours that she though she didn't have any tears left, but somehow as she washes her mouth out with a glass of water, the tears come again. She spent a lot of nights with Rachel, not crying for her sake. All those tears she never shed are coming back to her now. With a vengeance. There's nothing she can do to stop them.

She still wishes Peter were here, even though she knows it's impossible.

Her house is a crime scene, and as the evidence is being carried past her, something falls to the floor. Without thinking, Olivia reaches down to pick it up.

A white tulip has fallen out of the pockets of her torn clothes. She hold it in her bruised hands, and for the first time since she was with Peter, she smiles.

She looks out of the kitchen window, her hands wrapped tightly around the tulip. Maybe, just maybe, things will be okay now. Maybe he'll leave them alone, and he'll never come back. Maybe, maybe, maybe. A tiny spark of hope ignites somewhere inside her. Hope she'd only felt with Peter. Why was it that she'd felt safe with him? She's not sure. But this white tulip in her hands is all she has left of him now. She clutches it tightly. It gives her hope.

An odd looking man is watching from across the street. He is wearing a dark suit, and he is bald and he has no eyebrows. How strange.

… … …

Twenty five years later, Olivia Dunham is ridding her apartment of all traces of her. Of _them_. She is throwing clothes on the floor, chucking food in the bin, ripping sheets off the bed, and clutching an MIT shirt to her chest as she cries.

After a while, there are no more tears to cry. She is somewhat numb, maybe it's the alcohol, maybe she's just too far gone in grief to feel anything anymore. Still clutching his MIT shirt, she starts to move towards the bookshelves, glad to see that they're covered in dust. Reading has always been a safe haven for her, an escape from real life. Even as a child, she would always be reading, losing herself in a different world, to forget the painful one that surrounded her.

Why do these things always seem to happen to _her?_

It's stupid, she tells herself. How much she cares for him. How many tears she is shedding in this moment, over _him_. When did this _happen_? When did she let him past her defences? Was it when she kissed him in another universe? When she turned to him for comfort when she found out she was experimented on as a child? When he hugged her when she was killing people in her dreams? When she cried into his shoulder after he hauled her out of the sensory deprivation tank? When she shook his hand and blackmailed him into a new life? Whenever it was, she feels like it doesn't belong to them anymore. It belongs to _her_. Everything they had belongs to her.

She picks up a book from the shelf. _Winter's Tale, _by Mark Helprin. Looking at it, she isn't sure what she'll find inside. A memory of her younger self? It's been years, maybe decades since she's read this book, and she's surprised that she's kept it all these years. Maybe it was a favourite of hers as a child, but all her other favourites have been lost over the years in the various times she's moved houses, been to boarding school, gone to college. This book has survived all these years. She opens the book, and something falls from between the pages.

She is holding a pressed flower in her hands. A white tulip.

Flashes run through her mind.

"_What if we go somewhere?"_

"_It was the only drawing that looked happy."_

"_No! I'm not doing this anymore!"_

"_Don't you turn your back on me, you fucking _slut_!"_

"_I'm not scared."_

"_He hurt you, didn't he Livvy?"_

"_Did you imagine that?"_

"_Concentrate, Olivia!"_

"_You're a pretty little thing, aren't you darling?"_

"_I'm Peter."_

"_I'm Olivia."_

She clutches the dried tulip in her hands tighter, her mind reeling. For the second time that night, she sinks down onto the floor, but for different reasons. This time it is not grief but another emotion that overwhelms her.

She can't think. She can't breath. Why doesn't she remember? What _is_ she remembering?

She looks down at the dead flower in her hand, and another image flashes through her mind - a young girl standing at her kitchen window, watching police officers catalogue evidence in her house, feeling a twinge of hope that _just maybe_ her life might get a little bit better. The little girl looks down at the tulip in her hand, and remembers a boy who held her hand in a field of white tulips, and made her happy when she hadn't felt that way in such a long time.

"_I'm Peter."_

"_I'm Olivia."_

She knows the answer to her question. She did not first let him past her defences when she kissed him Over There, or when she shook his hand in Iraq. She first let him past her defences when she was a scared nine year old girl, all alone in a field of white tulips.

She clutches the tulip to her chest. There's one thing her alternate hasn't taken from them.

"_Did you imagine that?"_

She looks down at the tulip and smiles the same way she did twenty five years ago, thinking about the same boy, the same man. The same small glimmer of hope in her chest that _just maybe_ things might be okay, eventually.

This time, she does not notice the bald man outside her house, gazing up at the silhouette of a woman clutching a dead flower in the window. The man takes an odd device from his pocket and opens it, twirling a dial. He raises the device to his ear, and speaks only three words.

"She has remembered."

… … …

**A/N:** Ever since Subject 13, and watching Olivia walk away with her stepfather, I've had the idea in my head that _that_ was the night was shot him. The whole 'Marionette' part of it came to me later, a few weeks after having finished writing the first part.

To be honest, I'm not sure how much I like this story, so reviews are very much appreciated. Was it worth posting or not?


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